


A Story You Don't Want To Hear

by rafamarkos5998



Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, Exploitation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Metafiction, Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23934058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rafamarkos5998/pseuds/rafamarkos5998
Summary: Here's the tale of a girl who wants to die. I know, you've probably heard this before, but bear with me. What's more, you get to play a part too.
Kudos: 14





	A Story You Don't Want To Hear

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever piece of writing for public consumption, so I'm extremely nervous... especially because I'm pretty sure I'm not good enough at writing to discuss a topic like this. Please do tell me what went wrong and what went right.
> 
> Also, statutory trigger warning - the story discusses topics like suicide and self-harm. Please stay safe.

She glides down the deserted streets, the neon lights dancing on her pale face and her loose-fitting clothes. Her pyjamas conceal the mass of crisscrossed scars on her calves, and her jacket flaps furiously as a strong wind pushes at her tall, gaunt frame. She pushes her hands deeper into her pockets, as she looks ahead at the van parked a few hundred metres ahead of her, her fingers clamping down tighter on a wad of notes she just withdrew from a nearby ATM. She slowly weighs her choices. Either she's going to get the guy living in the van to sell her a couple of grams of fentanyl, or she's going to climb up the service ladder next to it, go a few hundred metres further to reach the middle of an entirely unmemorable bridge, and plunge down a few hundred metres more into the freezing January waters below.

Okay, I know that's a cheap way of grabbing your attention, but be honest, you're interested, aren't you? Or maybe not, this trope is admittedly pretty overdone. But hey, at least it's an easy way of depicting vulnerability and resolve at the same time.

_Yeah, I'm neither vulnerable nor resolute... Also, who are you talking to?_

Wait, she can hear us?

_Yes, I can hear you, loud and clear. You've been going for way too long now. So please, quit yammering, I need to focus here. You can wax poetic later._

There's nothing poetic about this. It's just... sad. I'm just bringing our friend here up to speed on what's going on.

_I don't see anyone else here._

You can't see me either, can you? Trust me, they're here.

_Okay, if you say so... So, what should we do?_

** >> Knock on the window.**  
---  
  
_Wow, it speaks._

Well, it's not like we have a sea of options here.

_Guess there actually is someone watching. I hope you find the show entertaining. You can ignore this, this is going to be the boring part._

She raises her hand to the window and knocks. She flinches as the noise breaks the stillness of the air around her.

_No, I’m not flinching. Also, shut it for a while._

\---------------------------------------------------

_That went well._

The sarcasm dripping from her voice was palpable for miles.

_Stop being hyperbolic._

Okay, it was palpable for me. Is that better?

_Not really. But I'll take it._

She walks away from the van, swallowing her rage as she struggles to regain control over her emotions. The wind picks up in strength and pushes against her even more as she purposefully strides down the road. Soon, she turns off the asphalt and heads to the banks of the river that flows through her city.

She's pissed. Unreasonably so, in my opinion.

Oh, don't give me that look. You should have seen this coming. No one goes to a dealer wearing a hoodie and asks for that big a dose. He's just observant and probably doesn't want your blood on his hands.

_And the blood of those who ODed on his fentanyl-laced heroin isn't on his hands?_

As far as he's concerned, those are medical accidents. Mistakes happen. In your case, he knows what you intend to do. He doesn't want to be a part of it. He has that right, you know.

_He has the right to arbitrarily look down on me?_

You know that's not what he's doing. He just doesn't want to be an accessory to cold-blooded murder.

_Aren't you overly dramatic... Also, how do you know what the guy's thinking? I'm betting you've never been to a drug dealer._

Admittedly, our author hasn't, but that doesn't mean that he can't write whatever he wants to.

_So, if I'm to believe you, my author is some random dude killing off a female character while a bunch of male characters who have power over the situation pontificate on the event and what it means to their tortured psyches? Sounds like textbook fridging to me._

Only partially correct. Our author is writing a story about the tortured psyche of a female character who is driven to kill herself. Some of the people involved in this story are male, yes, but that's not central to the story. Also, we don't know about our reader. And our author doesn't really have the option of letting them play a role.

_Am I supposed to feel better about this? I'm still the one who suffers from the tortured psyche, not the author. He's just sitting in front of a shitty computer typing away. He doesn't have to suffer the consequences of this._

She kicks away a tin can that has washed up on the bank and watches it skip over the surface of the river a couple of times before it finally goes under.

_So, what now?_

** >> Climb up the service ladder. **  
---  
  
_I guess you're the one calling the shots here... Reader-response theory is correct after all, eh?_

They have literally one option. It's an insult to their agency.

_Good. I don't want some ignorant sentimental reader changing my life story by just wishing I walk away from this._

She heads off in the direction of the bridge.

\---------------------------------------------------

She climbs up the ladder, slowly but methodically, pausing every now and then to test the strength of the rung she's stepping on before putting her weight on it.

_It's funny, I'm planning to go jump off the side of a bridge, and I'm scared of falling down while climbing up to that bridge._

I mean, it's not how you intend to die, is it?

_So my author had to make me irrational and stupid as well?_

It's perfectly rational to be afraid of death, especially when it's not on your own terms.

She tilts her head to one side, thinking it over for a second. Then, with a quizzical expression, she nods in acceptance, and continues to climb.

A few rungs later, she knits her brows in thought.

Spit it out already, will you?

_What's the point?_

Of what?

_Of any of this... why am I climbing this ladder? Why didn't our ingenious author just let me get what I wanted from the dealer before? Does he merely wish to make me suffer? What is all this for?_

He just wants to tell a compelling story about suicide.

_And me being afraid of climbing a ladder is essential to that goal? Does he just want to paint me as weak?_

As I said, you're not weak for being afraid of dying. It's perfectly normal to be scared of death.

_Even though that's precisely what I'm looking to do, once I get to the top?_

Yeah.

_Sounds awfully convenient. Is he trying to project his own fears onto me and justify them through you?_

I don't know... could be.

_I'm not sure how I feel about my existence and death being a tool for someone to work out their issues._

She keeps climbing, the dissatisfied look stuck to her face.

After she passes the halfway mark, the rust on the rungs starts to show. Evidently, public works maintenance here isn't exactly up to the mark.

_Yeah, it's not like there's any money for it in this dead town. I just hope nothing gives wa-_

The rung beneath her left foot breaks, and she slips down, losing her footing. Her feet dangle in the air as she tried to get back onto the ladder. After flailing wildly for a bit, she manages to get her feet back onto the unbroken rungs. She holds on for dear life, staying in place, trying to calm her breathing.

_Motherfucker, how can you be so blasé about this?_

She takes a few more moments to collect herself, before launching into a tirade again.

_You fucking dipshit, I almost had the exact thing I've been trying to avoid for the past 10 minutes happen to me, and you're calmly talking about it like it's the weather report? This is my fucking life here, you bastard!_

She keeps going for a few minutes

_No, you don't just get to skip past me! You don't just get to deny what I feel here! And why exactly is our author skipping my lines?_

I don't know... probably because he thinks it's uninteresting.

_Yeah, not an excuse. I think it's more likely that he has no idea how to write a character like me._

That is a possibility. A dangerously likely one.

_Well, he needs to come up with better material, and fast. We're approaching the dramatic climax here._

Hey reader, you want to keep going here?

** >> Yes. **  
---  
  
_Wow, so our author is now inserting words into his reader's mouth. At least acknowledge the fact that they could want different things out of this story than you, you egotistical cunt._

Shaking her head in distaste, she turns her eyes up, towards the end of the hatch, and continues to climb

\---------------------------------------------------

She sits on a steel beam jutting out from the side of the bridge, with her legs dangling over the edge, leaning back against the minor support pillar that rose a few hundred feet into the sky. For an utterly nondescript bridge, it was surely pretty big. You'd think it would have gained some notoriety by now.

_It's almost as if it's intentionally being omitted._

Yeah, I guess it is... It's your story that's important to this.

_Yeah... I should probably stop trying to make excuses for this, using you and this 'story' thing to tell myself that it's not me doing this._

And why can't you be part of a story that someone is writing to entertain an audience?

_My story isn't entertaining. Or funny. Or compelling. Or anything, really. If there was someone writing, they would be writing about her, not me._

She stares off into the middle distance, her eyes glazing over.

_Why did she have to go? I was the one who was supposed to die early... why am I still alive, while she's gone?_

She draws a shuddering breath, a small whimper escaping from her throat.

_She wanted to live... she wanted to live so badly. She tried so hard to stay alive. So why is she dead? It should have been me, killing myself in my early tweens because I didn't have a clue about what to do with my life._

She hides her face in her palms as struggles to recompose herself, almost curling up into a ball.

_I would have gladly died in her place... I never deserved to live anyway. She did. So why is she gone, and why am I still here?_

_Any clues, dear reader? Can you tell me why I'm still here?_

** >> I don't know. **  
---  
  
_Wow, aren't you useless._

That's not fair, they aren't being given a choice here. Not to mention that they don't know jack shit about the situation.

_Yeah, I guess I can't blame you for not having answers. All the shrinks I've been to couldn't give me one, and it's their fucking job._

No, finding a reason for people to live is a philosopher's job. And all they've done for the past hundred years or so is declare that no, you don't have a good enough inherent reason to exist, but you should live anyway, because... I don't know. Some sort of cop-out, I bet.

_Reasons to live are a fucking luxury... I can't even come up with a good enough reason to die._

Then why are you here, exactly?

_To kill myself. Duh._

_But I don't think I could explain to you why I want to do it._

Try me. More importantly, our reader has waited this long, you owe them some form of explanation, or else this bullshit is meaningless.

_Why do I owe them an explanation?_

Because they gave us their time?

She sighs, and lets her legs dangle down over the drop again.

_I'm sorry, I don't think I could ever explain it. No matter what I try to say, it's going to leave so much more unsaid. And the things I do tell you will be twisted and misremembered to fit your own understanding of me and the world, and my words will fly right by, communicating nothing._

_It's not like I have much to tell you anyway. Just a constant feeling of wrongness and a foggy memory of bad episodes of spiralling in a pit of despair. Yeah, I know it's pretty ordinary, and it's probably something you already deal with and handle better than me... what can I say, I'm just weak._

She rolls up her sleeve, revealing a tapestry of crisscrossing scars. Some look like they were inflicted years ago, others appear to be less than a few hours old.

You do know I'm not a person sitting in front of you, right? I'm an abstract entity observing you.

_Yeah, I know... I want to discuss them on my own terms. Yeah, I know, doesn't make sense because I'm being concocted by an author, but humour me if you can, please._

She takes a deep breath, her lower lip quivering noticeably.

_I don't really remember what happens when I start sinking into the 'uncontrolled negative thoughts' pool. All I can remember is the vague idea that I felt... wrong. Fundamentally, incontrovertibly wrong. But I don't recall precisely how painful it was to feel that way. So... this. To remember that it happened. To prove that it was... pretty bad. A form of legitimacy. If I don't have these, there's no proof that I felt that way. All those moments are just... gone, it's almost as if they never happened. Without these, it's almost as if nothing actually happened._

She closes her eyes, a wave of fear and pain twisting across her face.

_I'm scared, you know. I'm terrified of dying. I'm terrified of the idea of not waking up again, of the idea that I no longer am. I'm scared of being tossed into a sea of nothingness for eternity._

_And I'm just as scared of the possibility of the afterlife too. I'm afraid of seeing her there. I'm terrified that when she sees me, she'll be disgusted by who I am, by what I've done. I'm scared that I'm going to look into her eyes again and see nothing but disappointment and hate. I'm not ready for that. I don't think I ever will be._

_But I'm tired... Yeah, I know that sounds ridiculously cliché, but it's true. I'm tired of having to try so hard to get to where most people stay by default. I'm tired of swallowing meds every 5 hours, tired of biweekly appointments with a shrink who thinks he's some sort of genius philosopher-king who can fix the problems of the world, tired of trying to look for some way to fix all of this when it obviously cannot. I was born broken, flawed, plain fucking wrong, and I just want it to stop._

She draws a shuddering breath, tears welling up in her eyes.

_Why can't I just let myself go? Why do I have to be so goddamn fucking weak?_

You know, you don't need to take a call right away... you probably have till an hour after dawn before the cars coming down the bridge can see you here.

_So, you're suggesting that I, a mentally crippled bumbling idiot, am going to find an answer to one of the biggest unsolved philosophical problems in the next few hours?_

No, but you can relax and enjoy the fresh air, and watch the sunrise from what you have to admit is a pretty sweet spot.

She barks out a short laugh and pulls out a pair of earphones from her pocket. She slowly plugs them into her ears and then pulls out her phone, which looks like it's been through a warzone.

_Hey, not fair... it works, that's what counts. And look, it actually has a headphone jack._

__

She plugs her headphones into the jack and opens up a playlist on... YouTube.

__

You do know that Spotify exists.

__

_Eh, too lazy. And I'm not downloading it on what is potentially the last night of my life._

__

Point taken.

__

As the song starts playing, she starts singing along, her voice breaking every now and then and sounding slightly off-key, but nevertheless persevering on.

__

_I always thought  
I might be bad  
Now I'm sure that it's true  
'Cause I think you're so good  
And I'm nothing like you..._

__

\---------------------------------------------------

__

The sky becomes slightly lighter, as the dawn approaches.

__

You come to a decision yet?

__

_Of course not... if it were that easy, don't you think I'd be gone by now?_

__

She looks off ahead into the distance, as the black sky turns grey and the ends of the bridge become visible.

__

Suddenly, she cocks her head to one side, and slowly a smile creeps up on her face.

__

_You know what? Let's make it a coin toss._

__

She pulls a coin out of her pocket.

__

_Heads, I jump. Tails, I go back home._

__

And then you'll come back a while later to try again?

__

_Knowing myself, it'll probably take a pretty long time._

__

Why?

__

_I don't think I'll ever be ready for death... I'll need to force myself into it, in a sense. Surrender control to something else._

__

I'm not entirely sure how that makes sense, but sure, go right ahead.

__

She takes a deep breath, holding the coin in her left palm. With a quick flick, she tosses it up into the air. It spins wildly, as it rises into the sky, lighting up as the sun rises over the horizon.

__

As it comes back down, she grabs it with a smooth, sweeping motion. As she brings her hand close to her chest, she closes her eyes and breathes out audibly.

__

She slowly opens her palm, the sunlight glinting off of the surface of the coin. She smiles.

__

_Heh._

\---------------------------------------------------

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! It means the world to me.
> 
> This started as 5 sentences to start a story in my Creative Writing class. The title comes from how strongly my teacher reacted to me writing about suicide. A lot of this is me venting about my views on suicide, and how I have many conflicting thoughts about it. Another significant part is that I wanted to write a story that scrutinized the role of the narrator and the reader, to voice my fears on how posterity interprets suicide. I'm not sure if I've ended up achieving those goals - I'm pretty sure that it's just turned out to be a tween whining about life and pulling pointless tricks.
> 
> Ideally, this would have been a text adventure game or a VN, but right now I'm out of meds and stuck with a less than ideal family, so I'm not mentally in the right place to be able to make it. Maybe sometime later.
> 
> Again, thanks for reading this, and all criticism is welcome!


End file.
